by Mark Terry
Gulin stared at him. “Please take another look.”
Derek did, shrugging. “Don’t know him.”
The Russian took the photograph back and placed another one before Derek. It was a photograph of devastation. It was the podium where Zukhov had been in the earlier shot, but it was a smoking ruin, surrounded by the dead and wounded.
“What the hell is this?” Derek asked.
“Someone placed a bomb beneath the podium where General Zukhov was speaking. It killed the general immediately.”
“Convenient for the government,” Derek said drily.
“Yes. Very convenient. Do you know anything about the bomb, Dr. Stillwater?”
“What? No. Hell no. Hey, are you accusing me of this? I want to speak with the embassy. Right now!”
Gulin waved him off. “Dr. Stillwater, you’re not going to be speaking to your embassy until the appropriate time. I believe you know that. But understand, over thirty Russians were killed in that bomb blast and another hundred or more were wounded. Some of them may not survive.”
“And you’re looking for an American scapegoat?”
Gulin suddenly looked tired. He shook his head. “No, Dr. Stillwater. We are looking for a narrative.”
Derek sat back in his chair. “What?”
“I would like to get to the bottom of all of this. The truth… “ He shrugged. “…can be framed in many different ways. General Zukhov’s death is not a tragedy for me or my government. It is, as you said, quite convenient. But many people—Russians and the rest of the world—at this moment believe that President Eltsin had General Zukhov assassinated, along with dozens of innocent bystanders. We are looking for a narrative that fits the visible facts that will allow us to move forward.”
Visible facts, Derek thought.
Gulin slid another photograph across to Derek. It was of Grechko, walking away from the podium. This was a better angle than the previous photograph and it was clear that one arm was in a sling. It was also clear that he no longer carried the briefcase.
Derek realized that Grechko, for whatever reason, had decided to kill his employer. He wondered why.
“So this man left a bomb for the general or maybe the crowd.”
Gulin left the photograph there for a few seconds, level gaze aimed at Derek. “Apparently.”
“Perhaps,” Derek said, “Grechko was not an actual Russian military officer.”
“He most definitely is not.”
“Perhaps he is known to the Russian government and to Interpol and intelligence services around the world as a…” Derek paused, deliberating on the right term. “…terrorist.”
“Or international assassin.”
Derek shrugged. “I suspect both of those would feed the media, though.”
Gulin let a small smile play along his lips. “What would you suggest?”
“A disaffected former soldier, identity unknown?”
“Whose real target was General Zukhov,” Gulin mused.
“Perhaps he was dishonorably discharged … years ago.”
Gulin nodded and took the photograph away.
“There was,” he said, “an explosion and fire at an old school north of Moscow. Not long ago.”
“A busy night in Russia.”
“Yes.” Gulin studied him. “Do you know anything about this?”
“No.”
“There are bodies there. The bombs appear sophisticated.”
Derek shrugged.
Gulin’s fingers tapped on the table. “I wonder what Nikitinov will say about all this.”
Derek sincerely hoped that whatever Konstantin said, he’d leave Derek out of it. “I don’t know,” he said honestly.
Gulin abruptly got to his feet. “Stay here, please,” he said, as if Derek had a choice.
The Russian left the room. Just for the hell of it, Derek checked the door. Locked. He sat down and finished the coffee, then put his legs up on the table and leaned as far back in the chair as he could before falling over. To the hidden microphone, he said, “My name is Derek Stillwater. I am with the United States State Department. I have asked repeatedly to be put in touch—”
The door opened and Gulin gestured for Derek to follow him. Derek grabbed his coat and the ushanka and followed Gulin down several hallways, then into an elevator where they ascended several floors. The floor they got out on was different than the one he had been in before. This had rich carpeting and ornate molding on the walls. Derek frowned.
“Where are we going?”
Gulin led him to a door, knocked, and stepped in. A middle-aged woman in a gray silk dress worked at a computer. Gulin said, “Can we go in?”
She nodded.
Gulin led Derek through yet another door. It was a large room with dark wood paneling and old-fashioned brocade chairs and tables. In a chair before one of the tables sat Konstantin, who nodded at him. On the other side of the table sat a thin man with dark hair and a thin, somehow vulture-like face. He wore a blue suit, white shirt and maroon tie and said, “Dr. Derek Stillwater. We meet at last. Please. Sit down.”
The man was Pavel Eltsin, President of the Federation of Russia.
Derek tried to cover his shock, but didn’t think he did a very good job. Why had he come this high?
At the same time, the thought crept in that maybe it was a good thing, that Eltsin wouldn’t have called him into the office if his intention was to have Derek summarily executed.
At least he hoped that was the case.
He sat down. Gulin joined the four of them. President Eltsin looked at his watch, frowned, then turned to Derek. “Konstantin Nikitinov tells me you have been of great service to the Russian Federation.”
“Has he?”
“Indeed.” President Eltin’s English was quite good. The accent was heavy, the diction formal, but he was clear and fluid. “I understand that this man…” He waved a hand apparently at nothing. “… known as Mikhail Grechko has tried to kill you several times since you arrived here.”
Derek turned his head a bit to catch Konstantin’s gaze. Konstantin responded with a tiny nod. Derek said, “Yes. I really had no idea why. I’m still not sure exactly why.”
“Perhaps we will never know. But it seems likely that someone in the Red Hand, perhaps General Zukhov himself, felt you were a particular threat with your presence here in Moscow and your involvement in investigating the bombing outside your embassy.”
Gulin said, “And your investigation in Novosibirsk.”
“Grechko took a run at me before I traveled to Novosibirsk.”
President Eltsin again checked his watch. “You should be happy to know that our public health services, as well as members of the World Health Organization and a NATO Epidemic Response Team are already in the process of identifying people who have been exposed to smallpox. They are being identified…” He looked at Gulin.
Gulin said, “Quarantined.”
“Da. Quarantined and treated.”
Slowly Derek said, “I’m glad to hear that.”
“In your expert opinion, Dr. Stillwater,” President Eltsin said, “did the explosions and resulting fire at the school facility destroy the smallpox weapons?”
“What school facility are you referring to?” he asked.
Out of the corner of his eye Derek saw Gulin smile. President Eltsin didn’t smile. He glanced at Konstantin, then back to Derek. “I understand your reluctance to involve yourself…” The Russian president trailed off. “Well, you’ve been rather involved, and apparently with only minimal reluctance. Would it help to know that I was recently on the phone with Secretary Mandalevo?”
Derek wasn’t sure it would. He decided to keep his mouth shut.
Konstantin spoke up. “Dr. Stillwater, if the smallpox bomblets were stored next to several bombs that contained Soman, and those bombs detonated, and if as a result of that explosion the building they were in caught on fire and burned to the ground, in your professional opinion do you think the smallpo
x would have been destroyed?”
Derek nodded. “In the scenario you describe, I think so, yes. Although explosions can be unpredictable. It might depend somewhat on wind and weather conditions. Any people in the vicinity of the area should be monitored closely for several weeks for signs of smallpox infection. Also, your military or public health officials probably have bioweapon sensors and other ways of testing the area for signs of smallpox. I’m sure the WHO teams do as well.”
President Eltsin looked at Gulin, who rose from his seat and left the office. The president said, “He’ll make sure it’s being done.” Again he looked at his watch.
“And in Dagestan?” Derek asked.
“Teams are there as well.”
A smallpox infection called for an international public health emergency response. There was no way they’d be able to keep this quiet.
“I imagine,” President Eltsin said, “you would like to spend some time with your little boy.”
“Yes. That’s why I came to Russia.”
“From what I hear, he’s a fine boy.”
“My impression as well. And thank you.”
“A tragedy about the aunt and uncle.”
Derek nodded. He took some satisfaction in knowing that the man behind it had been blown to pieces. “Sir,” he said. “Where is Mikhail Grechko?”
Gulin had returned just as Derek asked the question.
President Eltsin said, “We do not know.”
Derek shot another look at Konstantin. Gulin said, “He disappeared. We have people looking for him.”
Reflecting on the fact that it was entirely possible that the Russian government had, from time to time, hired Grechko for certain services, and the fact that he had done the current regime a huge favor by blowing the crap out of Zukhov, Derek wondered how hard they would look.
Eltsin looked yet again at his watch. Nodding, he picked up a remote control from his desk and aimed it at the wall. Oak panels slid back silently to reveal several flat-screen monitors. He clicked more buttons and several of the screens lit up. “Ah,” President Eltsin said. “That one, I believe. The top left.”
The top left screen showed a wall of blue with the occasional black dot or white line. Derek didn’t know what he was looking at.
Gulin said, “The Caspian Sea.”
Frowning, Derek said, “What?”
Gulin said, “That image is, I believe, a satellite image of the Caspian Sea. Here. Yes, that makes sense.”
Suddenly the image shifted. Pixels rearranged themselves, shifted. A dot in the middle of the screen became larger. Then more digital rearrangement, then the dot resolved larger yet again. And again.
Finally Derek was able to clearly see a boat.
President Eltsin said, “What you are about to see is an unprecedented cooperative intelligence venture between the Russian Federation and the United States. There we go.”
An image appeared on the top right screen. The water appeared to be moving quickly.
Gulin said, “Video cameras on a Sukhoi Su-34. It’s a fighter bomber.”
President Eltsin said, “The boat is a trawler. It is registered to a small Iranian shipping company. It was in a port in Makhachkala, the capital of Dagestan. Your Central Intelligence Agency, our Air Force Intelligence, and the FSB tracked the missing smallpox to a warehouse in Dagestan. We have good intelligence that the smallpox bomblet is on that trawler, destined for Iran.”
“There it is,” Gulin said.
And on the video screen in which the trawler was visible, they could now see the Sukhoi Su-34. Derek had no particular sense of scale here, but the fighter bomber must have been within a couple miles of the trawler.”
And a minute later, as they watched in real-time, suddenly the trawler disappeared in a flash of light. The Sukhoi Su-34 turned and headed back toward Dagestan.
President Eltsin looked at Derek. “We took this threat very seriously. Thank you for your help in bringing this matter to a close. Since, despite your denials, you have possibly been exposed to smallpox, we insist that you remain in the country for a couple weeks. I understand you have had both a smallpox vaccine and a smallpox vaccine booster.”
“How do you know that?”
“As I said, I have been in touch with Secretary Mandalevo.”
“Yes. That’s correct.”
President Eltsin nodded. “So again, Dr. Stillwater. On behalf of my government and the Russian people, thank you. If there is anything you need while you remain in Moscow, please let Mr. Gulin know. He will provide his contact information.”
Everything was moving so fast. But Derek did have one request. He told President Eltsin what he wanted. The Russian president nodded. “I think that can be arranged.”
33
Irina was doing better, although she was a long ways from full recovery. She was in a private hospital room, but Lev was napping in the crook of her arm. Derek sat next to the bed. It was hard taking his gaze off the little boy, who looked surprisingly peaceful. Surprising, considering the trauma that the adults in his life had gone through recently.
Irina said, “You understand it would not work out between us.”
With a small smile, Derek nodded. “But I’ll do what I can. Support. Visits. He can visit me. I can visit here.”
“I’m sure President Eltsin is thrilled at the idea of you coming back to Moscow.”
Derek laughed softly. “I’ll stay out of trouble. Promise.”
“Don’t make promises you can’t keep, Derek.” She closed her eyes for a moment. He watched her, thinking how much she had changed since they had spent two weeks together on The Salacious Sally. He was certain her captivity was part of it, but not all of it. She had been wounded, tortured, threatened, and lived in fear for her son. There were physical scars and a lot of physical therapy in her future. But he saw more there, changes that may have come during her captivity, but changes that may have come from motherhood.
“What about Konstantin?” he asked.
She kept her eyes closed, but a smile ghosted her lips. “That’s probably none of your business, Derek.”
“He’s a good man.”
“Yes he is.”
Derek reached out and took her hand and squeezed it. “Thank you, Irina.”
Her eyes opened, that blazing emerald green. “For?”
“For Lev.”
She nodded in agreement. “Thank you. For everything.”
He left the hospital. Erica Kirov was driving him everywhere these days. She had been waiting in the hospital lobby for him. Derek was fairly sure it wasn’t merely a courtesy. Although in the end Secretary Mandalevo had been pleased with how events had turned out, a full accounting of Derek’s actions had made the Secretary of State go pale. Derek had a suspicion that Mandalevo would think twice before asking him to do anything else for the State Department.
But now Erica Kirov had become something of a full-time babysitter and tour guide. Derek was visiting a public health clinic every few days, being monitored for smallpox, giving blood, and generally being kept under the Russian government’s thumb. Kirov, who was good company, had become a friend, although she was not terribly happy that he had gone to war in Moscow. He wasn’t entirely sure if the issue was whether he had gone to war, or whether he had done so without her. Erica Kirov was sort of hard to figure out.
Erica drove him to the downtown bar to meet Konstantin, who was currently on a medical leave, being poked and prodded by doctors. When he wasn’t doing that, he was filing reports. He was also spending a lot of time with Irina.
They sat at a corner table. Erica had told him to text her when he needed a lift. And to stay out of trouble. Derek ordered a beer. Konstantin ordered vodka. They drank and looked at each other.
“Well?” Derek said. “Cleaning house?”
“I never would have guessed Kuts to be a traitor. He brought me in on the internal investigation.”
“He just wanted to keep tabs on you?”
�
��I think so. Titov and Kuts. They knew my investigation into the Red Hand was going to overlap with their plans. Titov tried to steer me off, but Kuts had different ideas.”
Derek sipped from his beer. There had been flare-ups smallpox, but the Russians and WHO had clamped down on it in a hurry. It was still too early to tell if the outbreak had been completely contained. Both the Russians and WHO had been unusually aggressive in their efforts, civil liberties be damned. Derek applauded that, for the most part. The world’s population was basically unprotected from smallpox. Limited immunity, limited percentage of the population with vaccines. A heated-up version of smallpox had the potential to spread around the world in a matter of weeks. Overall, smallpox killed about 30% of the people it infected, although the Russian version was more lethal.
It was a killer that had the potential of killing three billion people. It looked like they had contained it.
“Have you thought about…”
Konstantin smiled. “Irina? We’re talking.”
“She told me to mind my own business.”
“Good for her.”
Derek grinned. He had made a real friend in Konstantin Nikitinov. “Good luck to you.”
Konstantin drained his glass and slammed it hard on the table. “Fucking Americans!”
Derek did the same thing with his beer. “Fucking Russians!”
The bartender brought another round. Derek raised the bottle in a toast. “I’ve heard you Russians like elaborate toasts. So here: To the mother of my son, to the man who may be the father in his life, to all the trouble we’ve gone through to bring them home safe. It was worth every drop of blood spilled. May we be forgiven for our sins.”
They clinked beer bottle to vodka glass. Konstantin said, “As you Americans say, ‘Cheers.’”
Then Konstantin reached into his pocket and withdrew a passport. “That favor you asked President Eltsin for.”
Derek flipped it open. An expedited passport for Lev Arkady Khournikova. He realized his hands were trembling slightly.
Konstantin raised his glass again. “To our health.”
Five Weeks Later
Sharon Stillwater was sitting on the deck in the shade in back of her small house in Jacksonville, Florida. It was going to be a hot one, with the typical Florida humidity, but for now she was enjoying the moderate temperatures. In her lap was the latest issue of the Journal of Tropical Medicine. On the table at her elbow was another stack of medical journals and a glass of sun tea.